Visions of Hollyhock
by Tinkerpanda
Summary: Peeta wants children. Katniss could take some convincing.


VISIONS OF HOLLYHOCK

 **Summary:** Peeta wants children. Katniss could take some convincing.

 **Warnings:** Sexual content

* * *

She dreams of the desert, arid and dry beneath her naked feet. It rises up in red hills before her, barren and listless. There can be no life here.

She struggles forward, lurching on. But the farther she walks the further she seems to get from the horizon. When she can go no longer, falling to sit and await death, it appears before her. The sun-bleached ram's head looms, ready to steal her away. And with it the Hollyhock bloom. It's so strange she can't stop her curious fingers from seeking it out. Life out of nothingness.

She awakens slowly, gradually becoming aware of Peeta, lying beside her. She counts out his breaths. Her father told her once that the Hollyhock was the sign of hope and new life. But Katniss does not believe in the power of dreams.

* * *

He asks only once, a year after their toasting. She says no and that's the end of that. Or so she thinks.

He can't possibly think it's wise – not with his episodes or her manic moods. She scares him, the way she can swing from normal one day, setting out into the woods, bow slung across her shoulders, to being unable to rouse herself from bed. He cares for her then, as she does for him in the wake of his flashes. It's enough work looking out for one another, let alone another.

He can't possible think that they could have a child, not with all they've seen. How can he expect her to hold their baby with hands stained with the blood of children. Cradle an infant to her chest and know that the boy she saw ripped apart by mutations was once just the same as their vulnerable son. That when she rubbed ointment on the skinned knees of their daughter she'd see Rue lying in her bed of daisies? Didn't he understand? When there's so much blood on your hands you can't touch that kind of innocence.

She knows there will be no more games, but she can never quell the fear.

She loves him. She loves Haymitch. She loves Annie and Finnie and sometimes, when she's not being a total asshole, Johanna. She even loves the stupid cat Buttercup. And that's all she can manage.

She can't help loving them but she can help loving anyone else. Loving people can only ever lead to hurt. When they're taken away, when they stop loving you, when they leave, when they die, when they're gone. Love is hurt so she can't love anyone more. Her heart can't handle it.

She can't feel that loss again. Not after Prim.

And so they continue as they've always done. They grow older. He bakes. She hunts. He paints. Together they craft the book, filling it with every piece, every memory they can. She begins to sing again. And in the spring their house is filled with dandelions.

He always pulls out – an extra precaution against her most dreaded fear: pregnancy. The bitterroot tea she drinks each morning is the old 12 remedy. It's only so effective, she knows. But they are lucky. And when he spills himself against the sheets or her stomach or in her mouth she thinks to herself how sorry she is she can't give him even that pleasure.

He should be with somebody else – somebody who will give him the sons and daughters he wants. She'd been willing to die once to ensure he got that chance. But she can't let go of him. It's not an option.

* * *

He keeps a tin of broken biscuits to give away to children – She's seen many a toddler leave his store, gummy cookie clenched in their fat fingers. He shrugs. "They'd just go to waste anyway." He says. She thinks of the man who brought her the white bag of biscuits even though she'd been reaped against her son.

When they pass two girls, sisters with the dark Seam hair, chasing each other through the meadow his hand clenches around hers. Not hard, not for long. Just the instinctive tug of his fingers as he thinks about the babies she will not have. He looks away. He cannot hold her gaze and spends the rest of the afternoon staring at the spot just above her head.

She should let him go. But she needs him, as he needs her. Apart they're broken but together they fix each other. They can be whole again.

* * *

Delly and Thom's son turns three. There's a small party for Zeb and, of course, Peeta and Katniss go. He bakes a cake – white with lemon frosting. She carves out a small truck that Peeta paints with red and black stripes. He loves it immediately, running it over surface he can reach with vigorous vroom vrooms. It drives up over her arm and across Peetas. Peeta plays along, making animated beeping and honking sounds to Zeb's delight.

Later, after the cake is served and the fireflies are beginning to come out, Zeb crawls in Peeta's lap. Katniss is clearing the table but she stops when she sees them together, blonde hair bent closely over black, blue eyes and grey. Zeb snuggles close, frosting smeared fingers clutching his shirt.

She steps through the kitchen to lean against the doorway, quiet as ever. It's a pretty picture, she thinks.

"Uncle Peeta?" His voice is sleepy.

She thinks, not for the first time, how kind Delly is to let Peeta have these moments. He'll never have nieces of nephews of his own, brothers dead and gone. Like Prim.

"What's up, little man?" Peeta asks, arm wrapping around him protectively. "You're looking awfully tired there."

"Uh-uh." Zeb protests, but his mouth curves into a giant yawn. "Uncle Peeta, you like me right?"

"Of course." He says. "I don't just make cakes for any ol' ruffian, you know." He ruffles Zeb's hair until it stands up in spikes and Zeb gives a low giggle.

"You like kids, right?" Zeb persists.

"Sure." Peeta says. "Sure."

"Then why don't you and Aunty Kat have any babies?"

Katniss's heart clutches in her chest. She shouldn't stay – she should retreat back to the kitchen to finish clearing the dishes and pretend she never saw them. But her feet freeze, uncompelled to move either forward or backward.

"It's complicated." Peeta says, that age-old trope. But the words seem to choke him.

"Why?" Zeb insists.

"It's just – not everyone can have babies." He replies.

"Why? If you like kids why can't you have one?"

Peeta is silent for so long Katniss wonders if he won't just ignored the question entirely. "If I could had both I would. But you don't get to choose who you fall in love with."

Katniss slips back into the kitchen. She busies her hands, stacking cutlery on plates to bring to the sink. Her hands are unsteady. They clink loudly. She cannot breathe right, ragged breaths in and out.

He chose her over children. He should be a father.

Delly shoots her a worried look. "Katniss." But Peeta appears in the door with Zeb sleeping in his arms and her attention is quickly diverted.

"Guess all the excitement tuckered him out." Peeta's voice is hushed. He shifts, transferring the boy to Delly's outstretched arms.

When they get home that night she tries to make it up to him in the only way she knows how. She presses him down to the bed and rides him until his eyes go blind and he comes against her thigh. She curls against him, breasts pressing to his side, and she can't help the words tumble out.

"Sorry." Her voice catches, a soft sob. "Sorry. Sorry sorry."

He's confused. He just holds her until the quaking stops and she can breathe again. His strokes her arms, strokes her hair, strokes her back. Affection, love and comfort. That's what he gives her. And in return she won't give him children. She's awful, she thinks. The dream of the ram's skull and the Hollyhock comes to her but she pushes it out of her head by morning.

* * *

Spring blossoms into summer and their daily routine continues. Hunting. Baking. Painting. Writing. Feverish lovemaking. Repeat. Delly's announces she's expecting again. Katniss ignores the twinge in her own belly. She ignores Peeta's wistful looks. As weeks progress and she can no longer ignore the swelling of her friends' stomach nor the feeling of misery as she thinks again on all that she has forsaken.

"Run these by Delly's for me?" Peeta says, as she swings by the bakery before heading out on the hunt one morning. He holds out to her a white paper bag. She peers inside to see the crispy thin wafers pregnant women swear by to ward away the nausea. It was unusual – but not unheard of – for a woman to be plagued with morning ills during the second trimester.

"Delly's still unwell?" She asks, tucking them into her coat pocket. She feels a rush of guilt – she hasn't been by to see Delly at all since the announcement. It's awkward for her.

"Mmm." He cleans the flour off his hands, wiping them in his apron. "More trouble with this one than Zeb."

"I'll drop by." She shrugs her shoulders. She tries to skirt around him for the door but he sidesteps, blocking her path.

"What?" She shoves at his chest playfully.

"Forgetting something?" He leans down. It's a game they play.

"You've got customers." She points out to him, staring over his shoulder to where an old woman is picking through a bin of bagged breads.

"Like Mrs. Riverton has never seen a man kiss his wife before." Peeta scoffs. She stands up on her toes and seals her mouth to his. His lips have the faintest trace of flour and he smells of his baking. Her hands reach up to cup his face. She wishes he knew how much she loved him.

"Be safe." He says when she steps back. "And take a cheesebun."

"Already did." She grinned, swinging out the back door.

Delly was setting out laundry on the line to dry when Katniss arrived. Her face was drawn into a pained pucker. Her dress billows out from her stomach – it seems to almost strain against the fabric.

"'Lo!" Katniss called. "Peeta sent you these." She passes the woman the bag of crackers.

"Oh thank Jesus." Delly says tilting her head back to the sky. She rips into the bag and, with a sigh of relief, gnaws on one. "Sorry. They're about the only thing I can keep down these days. Thom usually goes by the bakery to get them after work but he left for Two this morning. Administrative details."

Katniss, unsure of how to respond just nods.

"Maybe it's just because Zeb was so easy – pregnancy karma you know?" Delly says, chewing slowly. She rolls her eyes over at Zeb, who is cheerfully rolling his little truck through a maze of rocks. "My back aches, my feet have swollen to the size of grapefruits, and my stomach hates just about everything I try to eat,"

Zeb gave a savage roar as he smashed his truck into one of the rocks.

Anyway Thanks Katniss. You're a life saver."

Zeb, newly aware of her presence raced over. "Aunty Katniss!" He cried. "Wanna play trucks?"

"Sorry little man." She crouched down. "No can do. Gotta catch me a rabbit for Peeta's stew tonight. Unless your hiding one in there that I can steal" She reached under his arms, tickling him until he feel to the ground giggling and squirming.

"Well. My work here is done. Better get going." She said, pushing up to her feet again.

Zeb scrambled to his. "No!" He protested. "Up!"

Katniss glanced over at Delly. This was new.

"UP." Zeb demanded, lifting his arms above his head plaintively.

"Sorry. I can't lift him anymore with my stomach and my back and he's gotten a bit needy about it. It's just about time for his N-A-P" Delly sighed. "Zeb, Katniss has to go."

"UP!" He stated again, clutching onto Katniss's waist. His lip wobbled and eyes filled. "Want up!"

"It's okay. It's all right. Come on up, bud" Katniss swung him up into her arms and twisted to rest him on her hip. He pressed a quick, wet peck to her check before curving an arm around her neck. He nestled his face against her shoulder. His hair was downy soft, tickling against her collarbone.

"You're getting heavy there kiddo. Growing up on me, are you?" She murmurs. She doesn't know, but instinctively she sways a little, rocking back on the soles of her feet to soothe. His eyelids droop a little.

"Mom always said we grew up so fast – I never really understood 'til now. Felt like time went by so slowly then." Delly commented, stroking a hand over his hair. "I really miss her now. Being pregnant makes me think more about the way things were. How they are now.

"We're different people now you know?" Delly asked. She worried her lip. "Nobody misses the capitol but I do miss the old twelve. My parents. Madge. Rye and Leven. The other merchant kids. The others who didn't come back after the war."

"I don't know how you do it." Katniss can't stop the words from gushing out.

"Do what?" Delly asked.

"Have children. I mean… you've seen how awful it all is."

"I know. I was a part of the war. I went out on the fronts in two, I bound wounds. I fired a gun." Delly said slowly. Sometimes it was easy to forget that the sunny and spirited girl had once been conscripted into the army of Thirteen.

"It's awful." Delly said, plainly, tucking her yellow hair back behind her ear. "But the world is changing. It's never going to be perfect but they're free now. Zeb'll be able to go to school, chose what he wants to do, where he wants to live, who he will marry. He'll have enough to eat and he won't ever face the reaping. And that just has to be enough."

How could it ever be enough, Katniss wondered. Zeb yawned in her arms, squirming in her arms. She jiggled him until his eyes fluttered shut again and his mouth turned down in a sleepy pout. Maybe Panem would stay safe – maybe there would be no more fighting. Maybe the Capitol could never rise again. Maybe, maybe, maybe. How could a maybe ever been enough?

"Life is one big 'if', I think. There's no certainties. You can only promise to do your best by them. I don't know. It's hard to explain what a child does to your life, Katniss." Delly sighed. One hand reached out to cover Zeb's foot, the other rubbing down over her tummy, linking the three. "Life is full now. They bring light. Joy. They're worth the uncertainty."

Katniss doesn't speak. Zeb cuddles in close and she nuzzles his soft cheek with her nose. She's not good with words – not like Peeta. So she doesn't respond.

* * *

She doesn't come home until the moon is high in the sky. It's well past midnight. He's left a lamp on in the kitchen. She hopes he's gone to be but when she eases open the front door she sees him standing in the hallway, shoving his boots on, coat open over his pajamas.

"Fuck, Katniss." He's fuming. The vein along his neck stands in high relief and she can almost feel his pulse, an angry tattoo, as he hovers over her. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I'm sorry." She says, swallowing harshly. She deserves his anger.

"Fucking hell Katniss." He slams the door, backing her up against it.

"I'm sorry." She repeats weakly.

He takes her in anger against the front door, her shirt pushed up over her breasts and his pants tugged open. His hands are hard against her, kneading her breasts, pulling at her hips. His teeth scrape along her shoulder. His thrusts knock her ass back against the wood. She comes and then he does. Even in his rage he remembers their promise and withdraws at the last. When they're done he leans his forehead against the wooden door beside her ear. His heartbeat slowly returns to normal beneath her hands.

"Don't do that Katniss. You drive me crazy with worry."

She pledges not to. She just needed time to think. Time to consider.

* * *

Peeta's birthday falls just after Christmas. It has never been a big celebration in Twelve – just enough to merit a day off work and some small presents for the children. Dolls made of twisted old rags, ribbons from the Hob, or, on very good years, an orange. He'd insisted that they weren't doing presents this year, but Katniss surprised him with new charcoals and paints. He smiled, kissing her on the forehead. He presents her with a small painting of her and her sister rushing across the meadow, buckets overflowing with dandelions. In the corner she spots a white hollyhock.

That night she rides him to completion.

His breath hitches and she knows he's close. She reaches down between their legs to the places where they're joined and cups him there. He makes a guttural sound.

He breaks their kiss. "Katniss." He pants.

She kneads him more firmly, slanting her mouth over his once more. She clenches around him, pulling with every muscle she has.

"Gonna." He manages to murmur against her mouth, words swallowed by her languid kisses.

"Katniss." He tries to pull back but she rocks him closer, keeping him deep within her. He's frantic now, pulling at her hips. He's never come inside her before. She wants to watch his face when he loses control.

He arches up, thrusting within her one last time before he stills. His head falls back against the pillow, eyes closed, jaw clenched tight. It's warm and, when she does climb off it, it trails down her thigh. She wipes it off with his discarded shirt.

"'Niss." He opens his eyes. "I … what did you do?" he asks. She looks away, moving to get off the bed and retrieve her nightgown. Instead he wraps a hand around her braid, pulling it gently. She falls against his chest. Can't avoid eye contact now. He waits, patiently, searching her face for some clue or hint of what she's thinking.

"I didn't drink the bitterbarnk this morning." She tells him calmly.

He's immediately confused. And then, after a moment, the realization sets in. "You didn't drink the tea?" He asks, voice soft as a whisper.

He shakes his head as if he cannot believe it.

"I think you've waited long enough for me to come around."

* * *

A little over two years later a daughter is born, squalling and kicking indignantly as she was pushed out into the world. The terror, incubated deep within her since the moment she knew she was to be a mother, ebbed back a moment and all she could see is a mop of unruly black hair and Peeta's eyes. Tiny fingers, miniature toes, gawky long little elbows and chubby legs. Her skin was the same colour as hers, the browned olive that spoke of the Seam and her father.

"Peeta." She murmurs his name. He grips his hand hard in hers. He can't take his eyes off her either. She's their dandelion in spring that brings rebirth; their pearl that promises for the future.

She's theirs. They're a unit of three now and she's their core.

"I know." His voice is choked. Ever the artist with phrases, talking her through the worst of her pregnancy, he cannot find words.

"What shall we all you, little one?" He murmurs, trailing his finger down over her flush cheeks.

"Holly."


End file.
